


Transposed

by NotEvenCloseToStraight



Series: Short Stories! [29]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Falling In Love, First Meetings, M/M, Mild Angst, Musicians, One Night Stands, Peter is Not Impressed, Reporter!Peter, Rock Star AU, Sassy Peter, Singer!Wade, Song writing, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, Wade is a Mess, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 13:52:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15864912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotEvenCloseToStraight/pseuds/NotEvenCloseToStraight
Summary: Wade is a has-been rockstar who hasn't put out decent music in ages, drinking and partying his days away and avoiding the public eye.Peter is a reporter who wants to write an article on the singer who had once been so great, but breaking through Wade's attitude and isn't going to be easy.Through the months that follow, interview after interview, Wade's story comes out in bits and pieces and the singer who once was only Scarred and Broken, finds a way to Transpose his story into something beautiful.(I'm terrible at summaries, Its better than it sounds)(tumblr prompt)





	Transposed

“Mr. Deadpool, sir, there is a reporter here from…” The secretary looked down at her clipboard. “Oh um, a reporter from  _Cadentia_ Magazine is here to interview you about your most recent album?” 

“That is a terrible name for what is undoubtedly a terrible magazine.” A figure stirred in the corner of the room, reaching for a bottle with one hand, a cigarette with the other. “Tell her no.” 

“Actually, you agreed to this interview almost two months ago, and you’ve cancelled everything else since then and I think it would be a really good idea if you would–” 

“Baby girl.” A low laugh, rusty and hoarse. “I don’t pay you to  _think_.”  

“According to my research,  _you_ don’t pay her at all, Mr. Deadpool.” A new voice spoke up, a gentle hand at the assistants shoulder as a young man pushed his way through. “It seems that before you fired your last manager– uh, _Piotr Rasputin_? Wow really, Rasputin? Sounds like a comic book character– anyway, right before you fired him, he realized you were on one hell of a downward spiral and redirected a chunk of your money into a trust that is soley responsible for making sure your employees get paid.” 

The man paused, pushing thick, black rimmed glasses up his nose and raising an eyebrow. “Care to comment? Or are you just going to keep drinking?” 

“Oh my.” the assistant whispered and he patted her back gently. 

“Ms.– Ms. Baccarin?” he smiled. “I can take it from here, thank you.” 

“Good luck.” she shrugged and ducked out the door, leaving the musician and the reporter in the room in silence. 

“For the record.” Deadpool spoke from the corner again. “My manager quit before I had a chance to fire him. And nobody called him P _iotr Rasputin_ , did you see the guy? He was massive. We called him Colossus. Had buns of steel that guy, real gym rat.” 

“That’s not even mildly interesting, I don’t care about any of that.” the reporter flipped on a few more lights and settled into a comfortable chair, clicking his pen a few times while he flipped through his notebook. “Alright then. I’m here to talk to you about your new album? How do you feel about it being so terribly received.” 

“Terribly received?!” Deadpool flinched away from the light–  _hello_ , hangover from a three day drinking binge– but still glared at the reporter. “Who the hell are you?!” 

“Peter Parker.” A quick flash of a press badge. “ _Cadentia_ Magazine.” 

“Terrible name for a terrible magazine.” Deadpool stumbled to his feet and made his clumsy way over to the bar in his suite. “What do you want?”

“Its not a terrible name, thank you, its  _Latin_. The fall, in English a cadence is a sequence of notes or chords–”

“I’m a musician.” Deadpool interrupted. “You’re going to try and give me a lesson on what a  _cadence_ is?” 

“You asked.” Peter raised his eyebrows and waited until the surly man grumbled in agreement. “Now. Your latest album– you didn’t even title it. Up until now, all of your albums have had a theme that reflect your rather colorful–” a meaningful glance towards the posters covering the walls– “stage persona.  _Scarred_ ,  _Broken_ ,  _Un-Alive_. All dark titles, dark themes, everything someone would expect from a rocker, and yet this last one–” 

“You aren’t the  _littlest_ bit star struck by me?” he interrupted again and Peter sighed as if personally offended. “Not one reporter has ever been able to make it through a sentence in front of me without stammering but you almost seem like you don’t like me.” 

“That’s because I  _don’t_ like you.” Peter sat back further in the chair, tapping his pen on his notepad absentmindedly. “Now then, your latest album is untitled. I don’t even mean that you called it Untitled, I mean, you  _literally_ left it untitled. Thirteen songs, all disjointed, none with your usual over reaching theme–”

“If you don’t like me, why are you and some fancy magazine named after some Latin bullshit over here trying to talk to me?” Deadpool finally came closer, throwing himself down across the couch opposite Peter and glaring at him. “Because I gotta say, I don’t get up before 2 pm for  _anyone_ , especially not mouthy little reporters with too much hair who haven’t stopped insulting me since the minute they walked uninvited through the door. “

“You haven’t finished an interview in years.” Peter leaned forward, dark eyes narrowing. “I’ve watched all the tapes. You go out of your way to make the reporter uncomfortable if they are men, flirt with the women until they are either trying to rip your clothes off or trying to run away and if neither of those tactics work, you start drinking and getting obnoxious until they cut the interview short so you don’t have to.”

“…all true things.” Deadpool shrugged. “So what, you thought you’d come in aggressive and catch me off my guard?” 

“Exactly.” 

“Well it’s working.” The singer blew out a deep breath and put the bottle down. “Alright.  _Cadentia_ Magazine. I know the name. Usually follows more traditional music, amiright?” 

“Usually.” Peter allowed, relaxing a little now that there wasn’t so much animosity coming from the big man. “But the  _actual_ music behind your particular brand of rock has some of the most complex and beautiful harmonies that modern music has seen in decades, and when you aren’t falling drunk off stage, there is something clearly hypnotic about the way you work, which is why we wanted to interview you.” 

“Falling drunk off stage.” Deadpool winced. “Saw my Moscow performance, did you?” 

“Cleveland, actually.” Peter corrected. “And then again in Portland. Made it to your Austin concert and–” 

“Yep. Let’s not talk about that one, thanks.” 

“Okay, let’s not talk about it then.” Peter motioned to Deadpool’s face.“Let’s talk about your stage persona. Deadpool. Obviously that’s not your real name, but you’ve done such a good job obliterating any trace of your civilian side, that all we know is Deadpool the musician.” 

“Yeah, I have done a good job of that, haven’t I?” 

“Even right now.” Peter frowned at him, and Deadpool sort of hated it. “You’re wearing all that make up to make yourself look scarred like you do on stage. Do you  _sleep_ with all that crap on? I understand the need to keep up that scarred persona when your performing– you’ve basically made your fortune by performing as a man who carries all his sins on the outside of his body-”

“Quoting  _Sins_.” Deadpool grunted. “Nice.” 

“It’s my favorite song from your  _Scarred_ album.” Peter admitted. “I’ve listened to it more times than I can count. And when you’re on stage, all the scars look cool but this close its a little more jarring. Have you been performing so long that you don’t know who you are when the make up comes off?” 

“Tell me something first.” Now it was Deadpool’s turn to lean in, narrowing his eyes at the reporter. “When you were listening to  _Sins_ , was it on a tape deck? A CD? Or are those words that you’ve only read in history books?” 

“Are you asking how old I am?” Peter asked blankly and the singer nodded. “Alright, I listened to it on a CD until it got too scratched to play anymore, and then I bought an iPod and downloaded it there.” 

“Oh good, you’re over eighteen at least.” 

“By a half dozen years, thanks. Now, I answered your question, you answer mine. Why are you wearing make up right now?” 

“Do you want to know a secret, Peter Parker from  _Cadentia_ Magazine?” Deadpool pressed his hand to his cheek and swiped down, turning so Peter could see there wasn’t anything on his palm. 

“It’s not make up.” A grim smile. “All the scars are my own.” 

“Holy–” Peter’s mouth dropped, and the pen fell from his hand, bouncing unnoticed off the floor as he stared. “Its  _you_?” 

“It’s me.” 

“But– how–why–um– I can’t—” 

“Tell you what.” The singer pointed towards the door. “You leave and let me sleep off the rest of this hangover, and I’ll play nice at our next interview.”

“Um–” too stunned by the revelation that the  _Scarred_ singer was in fact scarred, Peter made it halfway to the door before remembering to ask, “Our next interview?” 

“Made an appointment with the girl.” 

***********************

***********************

“So, the make up isn’t the scars.” Peter said softly, watching Deadpool put on a layer of foundation. “The make up is the only time you  _aren’t_ scarred, when you go out and run errands and all that, when the paparazzi catch you unawares. You wear make up to cover your scars, and then on stage–” 

“On stage is the only time I can be myself and the screams from people are adoration and not horror.” Deadpool said bluntly, applying fake lashes to his eyes and reaching for a set of eyebrows. “People think I spend at least an hour in the make up chair before performing, but really I spend at least an hour in the make up chair before I go out to get groceries.” 

“Why don’t you have someone get groceries for you?” Peter couldn’t look away from the transformation taking place in front of him, Deadpool looking more and more  _normal_ with every layer that went on his face– highlighting cheekbones and a strong jaw, his eyes a gorgeous hazel when you weren’t distracted by the scars and marks on his face. 

“Because it forces me to function.” A layer of sunscreen and then a ball cap went over Deadpool’s bare scalp. “I’m a walking disaster, Pete. Drink till I sleep, sleep until lunch time, binge eat some days, binge watch Netflix other days. Got people to do everything for me except wipe my ass and buy my food. Gotta get dressed and deal with people if I want food, so that’s what I make myself do.” 

“Right.” Peter kept staring at him. “Mr. Deadpool, have you always been scarred?” 

“Long enough to not remember what it was like to be pretty.” The rockstar stepped away from the mirror. “Even though, I’ve been tailoring my look to resemble Ryan Reynolds. He’s a hunk, huh? I’d like to look like him on a good day.” 

“There are literally millions of fans who think you’re gorgeous with the scars on.” Peter countered, then corrected, “Uh, I mean, without your make up on. You’re a sex symbol regardless, the talent speaks through the–”

“–the mess?” Deadpool finished. “Well thank god for that.” A side glance at the reporter. “You think I’m gorgeous, Pete?” 

“If I could get close enough to not choke on the vodka fumes, I might have an opinion.” Peter retorted. 

“Just for that remark, I’m cutting this interview short.” Deadpool slid his arms into a leather jacket. “You’ll have to come back if you want to ask me any more questions. Damn shame, that.” 

Peter’s mouth fell open when the singer walked right past him and out the door, apparently on his way to get groceries, leaving him there in the hotel room alone. 

Which was good, in a way, because if Peter hadn’t come up with some snappy comment about the vodka fumes, he might have blurted out something completely embarrassing about how highschool-age-him had had a picture of Deadpool on his ceiling and had spent many a night staring up at it and….thinking…. 

No, no way the disaster of a rock star needed to know that. It was bad enough Peter had to come back for another interview to at least get started on finishing his article about the once-great Deadpool. No way the man needed to know that Peter still went home and…thought… about him. 

 _Nope_.

********************

********************

“Look, I’ve got a list of questions I need to ask you for my article.” Peter chewed at the end of his pen, staring down at his note pad so he wouldn’t stare at a barely dressed Deadpool who was currently moving through different yoga poses in the living room the hotel suite. “Can I just run through them all real quick?” 

“Go for it.” 

“Alright.” Peter cleared his throat. “First, and this isn’t on my list, but I want to know anyway. Um, yoga? Really?” 

“It centers me.” Deadpool said, breathing out and transitioning to another pose. “And its the most exercise I can handle after a day of drinking. And its pretty fucking funny how hard you are trying not to look at me right now, so I think I’ll keep going.” 

“Wonderful.” Peter said dryly. “Well as fun as this is, we’ve had like four interviews together and you’ve managed to some what answer only four questions before throwing me out and I was only planning on spending two hours on this article and now its been almost two weeks. Help me out here, I’m on a deadline and need a paycheck.” 

“Alright then.” In an entirely drool worthy move, the singer pushed himself into a handstand, back and shoulder muscles straining and flexing, the scars doing absolutely nothing to detract from how much skin he was showing. “Quit gaping at me and ask your questions.” 

“Why do you live in a hotel suite instead of a house?” 

“I don’t like to clean up after myself.” 

“But you cook for yourself?”

“Hotel food is ridiculously over priced.” 

“Fair enough. What got you into music in the first place?” 

“Grew up poor but my neighborhood school had a music program. Apparently I was a natural on any instrument I picked up, and it distracted from how shitty life was.”

“Do you donate any music to inner city music programs?” 

“Pretty sure Colossus set something like that up a few years ago, yeah. And if he didn’t, I’ll make sure it happens. Kids need music, soothes the demons.” 

“That’s a line from  _Sins_ , ‘I need music to soothe my demons.” Has music helped balance you out? Do you use it as a form of therapy like so many other musicians do?” 

“Um…” he hesitated. “I wouldn’t say it balances me out. Sometimes singing just makes it all hurt more, like poking at a wound like won’t heal.” 

“Why do you sing then?” Peter looked up with a frown. “If it doesn’t make you feel better–” 

“Because even if it hurts, its gotta be better than keeping it all inside, right?” 

“Um… right. So. No pets?” 

“Nope.” 

“No significant other?” 

“Nope. I’ve learned not to attempt relationships because people only want me because I’m famous, and one night stands get old after a while, so I’d say no. No significant other. Not even close.”

“Favorite colors?” 

“Black and red. Do you have real questions? These are all stupid.” 

“A real question. Sure. Did you name your first album  _Scarred_ because of your–” Peter motioned to Deadpool’s body. “Or did all this happen after that?” 

“Because of my scars.” 

“Alright. And um,  _Broken_ and  _Un-Alive_? What was the reason behind those names?” 

“I’ll give you one guess.” 

“Right.” Peter took his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes. “Let’s try for more than a few syllables of an answer, huh? Um, it’s been said that  _Scarred_ and  _Broken_ especially, and  _Un-Alive_  to some extent, play like one long album, as if you wrote one entire song and then someone broke it up into chapters.  _Scarred_ is smoother, more lyrical, and you got some reviews on  _Broken_ that said it sounded like glass shattering, that you were disjointed and didn’t know where you were going with the project.” 

“Is there a question in there?”

“I’m getting to it.” He said crossly, and Deadpool smiled a little. “I disagree with those reviews, I think  _Broken_ reads more honest than  _Scarred_ does. As if  _Scarred_ is the beginning of the story,  _Broken_ is the Angst and  _Un-Alive_ –”

“Is when the hero loses to the bad guys.” Deadpool finished. “You’re right.  _Scarred_ was more radio friendly because I hadn’t dug deep yet. I was just… just sort of ranting.  _Broken_ was more honest because I was letting myself say what I  _really_ wanted to say, and  _Un-Alive_ –  _Un-Alive_  is the day I realized the money wouldn’t change anything after all.” 

“What were you trying to change?” 

“ _Everything_.”

*****************

( _Slight TW, brief mentions of depression, attempted suicide_ ) 

*****************

Peter flipped through pages and pages and pages of notes as he sat on the couch– ten interviews now ranging from that first catastrophic one that had only been twenty minutes long, ranging to last weeks, that had taken up almost an entire day, and each time Deadpool opened up a little more to him, talking about his struggles with depression, with using alcohol to cope. 

He talked about the accident that had left him so physically ruined and the woman he had lost in the aftermath. 

He laughed over how he had made money as a teenager singing covers of sappy love songs in restaurants with nothing more than his guitar and a fedora because apparently  _everyone_ was a sucker for a guy with a guitar and a fedora.

“Baby I Need Your Lovin’. Johnny Rivers.” he mentioned over sandwiches one day. “Slow it down and sing it against an acoustic guitar and its guaranteed to make someone fall in love. Also guaranteed to make someone fall into bed with me. If I ever had to beg someone to come back? That’s the song I’d use. Never fails.” 

He mumbled around a cigarette about how he had sat at his kitchen table and written every lyric to  _Sins_ with blood still on his hands from a bar fight. 

A half smile, telling Peter about how he secretly loved country music, specifically Faith Hill, may she live forever, and Miranda Lambert who both turned him on immensely and scared him to death because he didn’t think she was joking when she sang all those songs about teaching bad men a lesson. 

He closed his eyes and reminisced about his stint in the hospital shortly after Broken had gone platinum, the drunk driving accident that had left him nearly dead. 

One particularly rough session where the singer had played  _Un-Alive,_ the album he had written while they were still putting him together from the accident _,_  and sat and talked about the lowest moment of his life, the time when he had tried to end it all and but hadn’t been brave enough to try. Peter hadn’t taken notes that time, had only sat and listened with tears in his eyes as the singer he had idolized growing up broke down in front of him. 

“Used to be I picked up that guitar, sat down at the piano, grabbed a harmonica, whatever, and it brought me peace.” Deadpool said thoughtfully,  _regretfully_ , staring at the glass of scotch he hadn’t even taken a drink of yet. “But then it sorta consumed me. I had to wear make up and be normal out on the streets and on the stage I could be myself and scream about all my pain and it–it–”

“You started hating who you were without the music?” Peter suggested softly. “And that’s why this last album is awful. Because you don’t know how to  _not_ be Deadpool.” 

“And its not  _Deadpool_ that writes the music.” The man slid off the couch and onto the floor, closing his eyes. “Interviews- they wanted to talk about the  _why_ behind the music, what the words meant, how I made the notes flow, why the melodies are so haunting but  _Deadpool_ doesn’t know any of that. Deadpool stands on stage and sings to adoring fans and then drinks himself into a stupor until the next time around.” 

“So who writes the music?” Peter slid to the floor as well, nearly two months of meeting with the rock star giving a sense of comfortable to the movement, to their proximity. “Who writes the melodies? Who made gave Deadpool an outlet for all his pain?” 

Silence for a long time, then, “Wade.” 

“…Wade.” 

“Wade Wilson writes the music.”  ~~Deadpool~~ Wade opened his eyes and stared at Peter. “But its been so long since I was  _Wade_ , sometimes I don’t think I know how to do it anymore. Sometimes it feels like I put all of myself into the music and once the music is gone, there’s nothing left of me to exist anymore. I’m not  _anyone_ without my music. I disappeared from the music scene and no one wondered where I went. I came back with another album and because it wasn’t as good as my first ones, no one cared. Wade ceased to exist a long time ago, and Deadpool is on his way out too. When the spotlight goes out,  _I_  go out. Feels like I can’t breathe unless I’m on the stage, holding a microphone, holding my guitar. Can’t breathe without it because I don’t know who I am without it.” 

“You didn’t name your last album–”

“Because I can barely name myself most days, how am I supposed to name music, too?” 

*******************

*******************

“You’ve had hundreds of interviews.” Peter hadn’t even brought his notebook this time, sitting cross legged on the bed and eating Chinese food take-out while Wade flipped through a magazine on the other side. “Have you ever told anyone else that you don’t wear make up on stage?”

“Nope.”

“So why me?”

“You were brutally honest with me, figured I could be brutally honest with you.” 

“I was rude to you.” 

“Rude as shit, but I deserved it.” 

“Yeah, you did.” 

“Were you one of my groupies, once upon a time?” 

“If I would have been old enough to go to your Scarred tour? Yeah, I would’ve groupied for you.” 

“Been a long time since someone threw their panties at me.”

“I didn’t say I’d do  _that,_  but I probably would have swooned if you had made eye contact with me in the crowd.” 

“Is this a date?” 

“No, this is an interview.” 

“You aren’t taking notes. And you’re sitting on my bed eating Chinese take out. Sort of a date.”

“Definitely not a date.”

“You wanna go on a date sometime?” 

“Is Deadpool asking me out?” 

“…no. Um, no. No, I’d like to go on a date with you as Wade, not as Deadpool, not as a rock star. Just two guys getting pizza or something.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you’re the first person to talk to me in years like I’m human. Like I’m not crazy. Like I’m a real  _person_. Most people either discount what I say because they can’t take someone like me seriously, or they hang on my every word like some sort of hero worship and you don’t do either or those things.” 

“So because I was rude to you, you want to buy me pizza?” 

“I want to buy you pizza because you’re gorgeous, Peter Parker from  _Cadentia_ Magazine. Plus, you haven’t stopped looking at my arms, and I haven’t stopped staring at your ass so we should do something about it.” 

“Yeah, alright.” 

“…really?” 

“I like pineapple on my pizza.”

“I… alright, well I’m not going to kiss you until you brush your teeth, but other than that, we’re good to go.” 

******************

******************

A pizza date lasted all of ten minutes before it had been pushed aside and Wade was all over Peter, pushing him into the bed and tearing at his clothes and Peter gave just as good as he got, scraping his nails carefully but  _eagerly_ down the rough skin and ridged scars, moaning into each messy kiss, wiggling out of his jeans and spreading his legs when Wade lay heavy against him. 

It was a little graceless, sure, a little rushed, absolutely, but the connection was  _real_ – the heat in Wade’s eyes  _real_ , the acceptance in Peter’s touch impossibly  _real_ and when they were coming together, Wade fit tight inside Peter’s lean body, Peter holding Wade as tight as he could– 

–it was real enough to bring Wade to tears and he pulled away before Peter saw it, stumbling to the bar and tearing the top off a bottle to start drinking. 

“Most guys would take that as a critique.” Peter was panting, still sprawled on the bed, still breathing hard. “I’ve never had a partner bolt from bed for a beer before we’d even had a chance to kiss over it all.” 

“Yeah, well you’ve never fucked a rock star before, have you?” the words were cold and a little cruel, and Peter pulled the blankets up over himself uncertainly. 

“Um, Wade–” 

“Is that enough for your interview?” Wade wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and disappeared into the bathroom for a towel to wrap around his waist. “You’re a stubborn shit, I’ll give ya that. Most would have given up after the first interview but you came back for like three months. Got all the aspects of me– my drinking, the truth of my scars, why I stopped writing, and now you know how I am in bed. Should be enough for your article, right?” 

“Wade–?”

“I’m going to take a shower. The door man will let you out.” 

***************

***************

Peter’s article about Deadpool headlined the  _Cadentia_ Magazine six months later, blew up on line and brought him four different job offers from much bigger magazines. 

Six pages worth of writing, intimate and beautiful, speaking about the way the singer had donated money to inner city schools, how he had a trust set up to pay his employees so they would never miss a paycheck even if he never sold another album again. 

Exquisite paragraphs about how Deadpool felt most like himself on stage, how music had both freed and then somehow enslaved him, and how musicians in general offer so much of themselves, even their very  _breath_ in exchange for our souls to feel a little lighter when we listen to the lyrics. 

Quotes from Deadpool about how music had changed his life, quotes from his old managers and current employees about how Deadpool was so heartbreakingly honest in his music, that the drinking and partying was just a piece of him, and not the one that the world should focus on. 

A line that said, “Deadpool has come under fire for refusing to name his latest album, but how can a man name an album, when his own name has been erased and all anyone knows is the music? How can you give a song a name, when its the songs themselves that made his true name obsolete? When breathing life into this music, has made the man behind it all cease to exist?” 

There wasn’t a single mention of the personal things they had talked about– about writing Sins with busted knuckles, about how Forever had been written for Vanessa, how Un-Alive had been a desperate cry for help at the lowest point of his life. 

Not even a breath of a  _hint_ of mention of that one time in bed together, not the way Wade had held Peter so carefully, not the way Peter had thought their souls had sparked together for just a minute, not the way Wade had done such a terrible job of hiding his tears, the way he was floored by a connection he hadn’t let himself have with anyone in years.

There wasn’t a mention of the following months, where Peter had stared at his phone with his thumb over Wade’s number and talked himself out of calling it, how he had cried himself to sleep because somewhere in between calling Wade out for being a drunk has been rock star and sharing Chinese food on the bed, Peter had gone and fallen in love with the singer, and then had his heart broken like a teenager and he  _hated_ himself for it. 

No where in the article did Peter say that Wade’s scars were real, and no where did he ever say Wade’s name. 

Those were secrets he would keep for himself. 

*******************

*******************

Wade read the article front to back, and then back again, scouring the words for any animosity or anything mocking or condescending or anything like the articles usually written about him. 

Not once had Peter’s words turned bitter, not once had he spoke about how weak Wade was, how  _lost_. 

No, Peter had written an article about a musician giving everything he had to his craft, about a singer who had never been anything but honest in his songs, about a rock star who was incredible whether he was on stage or not. 

Peter had written the article as if Wade was the man everyone thought he was– beautiful and whole and  _happy_. 

And it didn’t feel like reading lies, because with Peter, Wade had felt like all of those things. 

Pushing Peter away had been fear. Fear of losing him now that the article was written, fear of rejection once Peter realized that he really was scarred and he really was broken and that the words he sang were true, and not just lyrics to make money. Wade was afraid that the novelty would wear off and Peter would be off chasing another rock star for another article. He was afraid that Peter would ask him to wear make up in public to hide the scars, and even though Peter hadn’t flinched away when they were in bed– it was just a matter of time, right? 

But maybe not. Because the article read like someone who had taken a good long look at Deadpool– at Wade– and liked what they saw regardless.

And that gave Wade hope.

******************

******************

“Mr. Parker?” The secretary poked her head into Peter’s cubicle. “This is a little odd, but you have a visitor downstairs?” 

“A visitor?” Peter raised his eyebrows. “I don’t get visitors, who is it?” 

“He said his name is Wade?” she offered and shrugged. “He called up from the ground floor. Do you want me to tell him you aren’t available?” 

“Uh no.” Peter shoved his chair out and grabbed his jacket. “No, I’ll see him. Thank you.” 

Downstairs in the lobby, a crowd was gathering, several people with their phones out recording as a man sat on the bench wearing a fedora and holding an old guitar, singing quietly. 

Peter slowed his near run to a walk as he approached, and when he got close enough he could hear the song–

 _Although you’re never near_  
Your voice I often hear  
Another day, ‘nother night   
I long to hold you tight  
'Cause I’m so lonely  
  


Wade looked up in time to catch Peter’s eye and offered a hesitant smile before he kept singing,

 _Some say it’s a sign of weakness_  
For a man to beg  
Then weak I’d rather be   
If it means having you to keep,  
'Cause lately I’ve been losing sleep  
  


Peter smiled back, cautiously, hopefully, and Wade’s smile grew, and the song continued slow and sweet–

 _Baby, I need your lovin’_  
Got to have all your lovin’  
Baby I need your lovin’  
Got to have all you lovin’ 

********************

**A Year Later**

*********************

“Mr. Wilson.” The interviewer paused to give Wade and Peter a sunny smile. “So. In the last six months you’ve not only released a brand new album featuring just you and your guitar, but you’ve also given fans your real name, which none of your fans never knew before now, and the story behind your scars, which I think I can say without exaggerating, broke all of our hearts.”

Wade nodded politely and she continued, “And here you are with your boyfriend–”

“Fiancee.” Wade held up their hands and Peter blushed. “As of yesterday, actually.” 

“Fiancee.” she corrected herself. “Congratulations! Wonderful news. You have become something of an icon now, between your very public relationship with Mr. Parker here, your honesty about your struggles with depression and suicide, and now your complete removal from the music you used to sing, to become this… this softer man that we all love so much now. Can you tell me, what started this change?” 

“Peter did.” Wade said without hesitation, and Peter snuggled a little closer to his side. “He refused to let me do all my usual bullshit when he tried to interview me, and it was intriguing so I kept inviting him back. Eventually we were just  _talking_ about everything. I was able to be honest and real with him _,_ and then when the interviews were all over-” a fond look down at his soon-to-be-husband. “– I discovered that in between him telling me I stank of vodka, and him writing that article, I– I healed a little bit. A lot, actually. I’d healed and hadn’t even known it was happening.” 

“So you went after him.” She prompted. “Didn’t you?” 

“I showed up at his work and played and sang to him until he agreed to go out on a date with me.” Wade confirmed. “Three hours. He made me sing for three hours before he said yes.”

“It was payback.” Peter grinned at him. “Because one time I had an interview scheduled and he needed a shower and passed out in the tub for three hours while I waited outside. Rude.” 

“God, so rude of me.” Wade laughed. “Anyway. Yeah. Somehow I fell in love and even more incredible,  _he_ fell in love with  _me_ , so here we are.” 

“And the title of your new album.” She held up the newest CD. “ _Transposed_?” 

“My album titles have always reflected how I felt at the time of writing it.” Wade squeezed at Peter’s hand. “ _Broken_ ,  _Scarred_ – those are all self explanatory. But  _Transposed_ – its how I am now. I’m still me. But I sound different and I feel different and things are just  _different_. Same song, but in a different key.” 

“A better key.” Peter added, reaching up to draw his fingers lightly over the scars on Wade’s chin. “Right?” 

“Right, baby boy. A  _better_ key.” 


End file.
